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Stating the Obvious
The lobby of Bodkins Antiquities is quiet; besides the security guards that stand at the door 25 hours a standard day, the only other person who stands in this area at the moment is Smitherbodkins himself. He is in front of the sabacc deck display case, looking intently down at the cards unfolded before him. His brow is knitted, a frown etched on his forehead, displayed prominently by his unusual lack of hat. He is motionless before the cards, though his eyes are unfocused, as though he's looking through them, his thoughts on something else entirely. Whatever that something else is, however, is a mystery known only to him. The door to the lobby of Bodkins Antiquities opens. It is a few moments until Miranda Jabs steps through the open door, closely followed by her verpine slave, who now lets go of the door and allows it to close behind him. Miranda Jabs is somewhat taken aback to find the man she was looking for so easy to find, and pauses for a moment, putting on her game face, as it were. "Mr. Smitherbodkins," she says as she approaches. "I hope I am not interrupting. Do you have a moment?" Unlike his normal polite, gregarious self, Smitherbodkins does not turn away from the cards immediately. The moment stretches into several, past the point of being rude, at least for him. Finally, though he does not turn, he does respond to the woman who's entered. "Ms. Jabs." After all, her voice is rather recognizable. He motions to the deck of cards in front of him, his eyes trained on them, particularly the Queen of Air and Darkness. "What do you think of this deck?" At this question, he finally turns to face her, his gaze calculating, the jovial smile nowhere to be seen. He waits expectantly for her answer, looking for all the world like he thinks whatever he says may be vitally important. Miranda steps up and takes a long look at the cards fanned out in the display case. "I must say, Mr. Smitherbodkins, I am not much of a gambler. I prefer to know the outcome in advance before betting on anything, if you know what I mean. But I do not believe I have seen such artfully decorated sabacc cards in all of my days. The Queen's eyes seem to be following me, as if they can read my very soul. And Demise is very macabre." For someone who does not gamble, Jabs does seem rather well versed on the particulars of the sabacc deck. Of course, maybe she just plays sabitaire. Finally, once her assessment is complete, she once again turns to look at Smitherbodkins, giving him a searching look. Smitherbodkins and Jabs are standing near the display case that houses the brilliantly illuminated sabacc deck, conversing quietly. Whatever Jabs has said seems to satisfy Smitherbodkins; at least, he nods once, decisively, before turning back to the deck once more. "I enjoy sabacc," he says, almost idly, reaching out to lay his fingers on the glass with a reverence usually reserved for holy regalia. "You, your opponent, your wits, and the cards. Nothing interfering. No outside forces to keep in mind." He pauses again, that strange look touching his eyes once more, before he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, as though to clear it. Turning back to her, his voice is more akin to his usual one as he continues, "You wished to discuss something?" Miranda listens quietly as he describes his feelings about the card game. "Sounds like a good way to hone your instincts. I guess I know now where you got them from." She smiles almost warmly, or warmly for Miranda Jabs anyway. As he turns back to face her, she returns to all business. "I wanted to talk to you about the new prestigious new Prex and how I might persuade you to drop this silly Direx vote." She is speaking a little loudly. Since Smitherbodkins always talks loudly, it is possible he may not notice. Anyone walking nearby or, say, listening with a bug, might also hear. Whatever the reason that had brought him here, the man that entered did not look as if he belonged. The long mane of dreadlocked hair, perhaps it was a small mercy that it didn't look dirty, hung loosely tied together over his back, or rather over the cloak that covered much of his body. By the look of his face, he was not particularly large of frame, but he did look bulky, the armour he wore adding several layers to him. It could only be armour as even if most of his body was hidden, the boots he wore were not made for civilians, the layer of steel over them making clear that they belonged to a suit of armour. The right side of his hip bulged out considerably, a pack or something of the sort worn there perhaps. A thorough look is cast about after he enters, and some long moments after, the man walks forward, having until that point been frozen to the lobby's threshold. Another nod is given to the woman; Smitherbodkins expected nothing less from her, or at least, from someone. If he notices her change in volume, though, he doesn't show it, and his own voice is quite unusually low. "My instincts have been failing me of late, Ms. Jabs, as you may have seen." It's not said sarcastically, or even pointedly, as if to dissuade her from her flattery that may or may not be false. It's simply stated as a fact, unable to be disputed. When he turns back to her, his eyes are hard, his lips pressed together; there's steel in his gaze, but resignation, as well, and he continues, "I'm afraid I cannot oblige you in that, my dear lady. I have my honor." He doesn't yet notice Lanze, his back toward the door. Miranda presses her lips together in annoyance at Smitherbodkins' response. "Well," she begins, cutting off abruptly as Lanze walks in. It has not been long since she came from Amalgamated Waste Headquarters, and she hoped she was just imagining things, but perhaps Qwynt was crazier than she could even begin to guess. "You appear to have a...customer. I'll wait. Over there. Wouldn't want to ruin a sale." Before he can even respond, the executive has begun to walk away from Smitherbodkins, her verpine slave in tow, to the far side of the room and pretends to examine the other display case, really watching what is going on behind her in the glass. At last the presence of the two...three others once the Verpine is included is noted and Lanze heads towards them, or rather towards him as his entrance seems to have brought to an end the conversation that was being had. "This is a place to buy baubles and other luxuries?", the man asks as he steps nearer to Smitherbodkins, stopping just past arms reach of him. He looked around again, his gaze drawn to the case nearby, the one that held the sabaac deck, a brow arched as he studied it. "I was told that one could obtain gifts here. Is that correct?" As Miranda mentions the potential customer, Smitherbodkins turns, and it's as if a switch is flipped on. His jovial smile returns, all hint of introspection banished like it never existed. "Of course, my good man," he says, and even his voice returns to its usual pitch; that is, loud. "We have many items available for purchase. We are also able to fulfill custom orders, in an amount of time dependent on the item in question. Did you have anything specific in mind?" He meets the man's gaze, completely intent on whatever Lanze has to say. Jabs is not even in his periphery anymore, as though she's ceased to exist, his entire attention on the customer at hand. "And you have gifts for children, young children?", Lanze asks next, only now coming back to looking at Bodkins. the mustache, the eyebrows, the dark clothes and the gloves, especially the gloves, catch his attention, and that arch of his right brow transforms into a deep furrow. "I hope that I did not interrupt whatever...business dealing you had with that woman? I can come back later if I had interrupted, Mr....", a slight pause then, just enough for the businessman to offer his name should he so wish it. "But if I have not interrupted, then show me the gifts you have for children." "Not at all," and Smitherbodkins gives a vague wave, dismissing his discussion with Miranda as of no more than the smallest consequence. "Smitherbodkins. Geophreigh Smitherbodkins, at your service." He sketches a bow, flourishing just a tiny bit more than is strictly necessary, although if one were really being truthful, the bow itself isn't strictly necessary, either. "Children? Ah...I do have some things that may be appropriate for children, yes. Perhaps not if they are of the disorderly variety." A light chuckle accompanies this statement; it's clear that he doesn't have much experience with children. "Please allow me to show you." He begins to make his way toward the back of the showroom, nearer the turbolift that leads to the upper levels of the building. Some dolls can be seen along the wall, though from the looks of them, they've never once been played with. There are several picture books with lavish illustrations, as well, and even a few games that look plausible...if the child in question was actually a 50-year old in disguise. Lanze seems as unfamiliar with children's games as the man beside him seems to, or rather, it is these games' point that elude him, the doll earning nothing more but a quick shake of his head as they are dispelled out of hand. "The books.", he says, pointing towards them, "I will take them.", the decision was made after only a few moments thumbing through some of them, the scenery and the various fantastic creatures drawn earning an approving nod from the man. "I understand that there's been quite some change on Etti Iv as of late, something about a new leadership?" Nodding, Smitherbodkins collects the books, beginning to walk toward the back of the room to scan them, though making sure to keep pace with Lanze as he does so. Lanze's question earns another vague wave, "A new Prex was appointed at the last Direx board meeting. It is of little consequence; Corporate Sector business will continue as usual." However, his tone takes on a new, strained quality, belying his nonchalant words. Reaching the scanner, he inputs the books, the total coming up on the screen that's facing toward Lanze so that he can read it. "Prexes come and go, but the sector survives and thrives, as it always has." "The choice of a new leader has no effect on the CSA? I was not aware that the Prex was a ceremonial position, but I will say that I do not do as many dealings with the Corporate Sector as I might wish." As he speaks, Lanze reaches into his jacket to pull out a credit chit, handing it over, its contents, apparently, enough to cover the sale of the books he purchased. As he reached his arm out, his hand came into view and a few glimpses of what was beneath that cloak revealed, the style of the armour he wore easy to realize should one know the culture it originated from. "I understand that you yourself occupy quite a high position in the CSA, Mr. Smitherbodkins." "Indeed I do." If Smitherbodkins feels any embarrassment from the recent IGNews debacle that has made him so recognizable to any sentient able to watch the holovid, he doesn't show it. In fact, he's almost laconic as he takes the credit chit, securing it in its proper place before beginning to place the books delicately into a bag woven from some sort of fabric. It's hard to tell what kind, but it looks expensive. Handing over the bag to Lanze, he says, "It is not that the Prex's position is ceremonial, merely that the assuming of this position means little to the board. A new Prex is appointed quite regularly, and all the eligible CEOs on the board are quite capable of performing the duties required without causing a hiccup in stockholders' shares." He begins to say more, but the man's accoutrements catch his eye, and his eyebrows raise ever so slightly as looks at Lanze once more, his gaze more calculating than before. "And may I ask your name, sir?" Watching the transaction take place in the reflection of the highly polished display case, Miranda Jabs comes to the conclusion that this man is of little threat. As the sale takes place, she begins to make her way slowly over to the register, taking in the other items for sale in the headquarters branch of Bodkins Antiquities. As she walks, she pulls a slip of paper out of her pocket and grabs a pen from one of the display cases. It is probably a very expensive pen. A very rare pen. She doesn't know. She doesn't really care. She carries it to the register. The bag, when passed over to Lanze, is hung from a loop at his belt, his cloak momentarily thrown back to allow that before it once more covers much of his body. "I am Lanze, of clan Beviin. I was in this area to see what opportunities for business could be had when your name was mentioned to me by people I know. You know of my people I take it?" The return of the diminutive woman brings a temporary halt to whatever else Lanze was going to stay, a brief nod offered to her as he takes a step back, allowing her to take his previous position at the counter. Smitherbodkins nods once, "I am, though I was under the impression that there were not many left in existence." In fact, the operative word here would be -none-, but clearly that's false, as here stands Lanze, in the flesh and the armor. "I am not what one would call well-versed, however." His eyes flick toward Miranda as she approaches once more, and when he gets sight of the pen in question, his smile widens, "Ah, you have chosen most excellently, my dear. That pen is the pen of Huttese kings. Note the rather large circumference at the top, tapering toward the bottom? It assists them while holding it. If you wish, I also have a desk that goes with it. They are usually situated atop the Hutt's stomach while writing, wedged in a fold of skin." Miranda Jabs looks disinterested in the glut of information that Smitherbodkins presents about the Hutt pen, looking somewhat impatient for him to just ring her up. She is not interested in a writing desk. Jabs is a utilitarian, if nothing else. "Just the pen," she says, passing over a credit chit. Before even waiting for Smitherbodkins to finish checking her out, the bespectacled woman retreats to a nearby case displaying a large sword and takes pen to paper, scribbling roughly, trying to get the ancient pen to actually work, leaving Lanze free to continue his conversation. "Now would be my cue to say that stories of our demise are greatly exaggerated, but this is not some cheap holo-novel.", although thought of his clan or worse, his people going extinct is enough to bring a grimace to his features, a disgusted look that he doesn't easily manage to get under control. Someone was sensitive, apparently. "A simple client or another business associate of yours?", Lanze asks once Jabs retreats, having continued to look at her as she walked away. "Anyway, you understand what I am offering, yes?" Miranda's scratching and jabbing with an artifact of such value cause Smitherbodkins to wince visibly, though all he says it, "Ah, Ms. Jabs...if you wished for a writing implement, you needed only to ask." Hutts, after all, did not use ink to write with these particular pens. Perhaps Jabs may figure that out, once the smell hits her. Turning back to Lanze, Smitherbodkins raises an eyebrow, pondering his last question. "I believe I am getting an inkling," he says, "though perhaps you would be willing to make it more plain. If you wished to speak privately, I can offer you my card, though this lovely woman," and here he indicates the still scribbling Jabs, "is a trusted associate of mine, and you may speak freely in front of her." Miranda has very little luck with her newly acquired, and very expensive pen. Perhaps it only works in combination with the special desk, no doubt coated in horrible Hutt-fat-fold germs. They probably never cleaned in there properly. Thinking about it too much only causes her to want to gag, so she stops thinking about it. So far she has only succeeded in ripping the paper three times. At long last, the pen begins to secrete a dark brown ink and a smile of relief comes to Miranda's face. However, it quickly fades as the smell does, indeed, hit her. The pen clatters to the ground and she gives Smitherbodkins a look of horror. "Pick it up!" she hisses at the Verpine, who scurries forward to get it. She grabs a small satchel that the Verpine carries and pulls out a disinfecting cloth and begins scrubbing at her hands, her nose wrinkled up in disgust. A quick shake of his head reveals how Lanze takes that particular offer, "No, you have a client that is not satisfied, and I would hate to lose you business. A card will be enough for now, it is sufficient that you are simply aware of my existence." The man holds out his hand, waiting for the card in question to be dropped into it and once that is done, and after a look towards Jabs, he walks towards the entrance, quickly making his way out. The requested card is the work of but a moment, and soon it is dropped into Lanze's outstretched hand; after all, Smitherbodkins would hardly be a gentleman if he did not carry an adequate supply of business cards on hand at all times. "The bottom frequency is the secure line," he says absently, his attention momentarily distracted by the clatter of the pen on the floor. Luckily, Hutt artifacts are notoriously sturdy, stemming no doubt from their tendency to roll over onto them. He's not rude enough to let his customer leave without a goodbye, though, and he gives him a nod, saying, "Thank you for your custom." Moving toward Jabs, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket once more, pulling out a much more servicable-looking, though still elegant, pen. "Do you still require this, Ms. Jabs? Perhaps a new piece of paper, as well..." he eyes her attempted note with a healthy skepticism. By the time she is done scrubbing her hand clean, Lanze has left the store and Smitherbodkins is there offering a pen. She sighs and gives him a withering look. "I don't need it anymore. I just wanted to talk to you about the Direx meeting," she shakes her head, as if to say no, "and the Prex," and continues to shake her head. If anyone is watching and listening, this might be confusing, but anyone who was just listening would think nothing of it. Her expression seems to ask, "Are you sure we can talk?" Smitherbodkins raises an eyebrow, the strange conflict between her words and her motions giving him pause. He then moves to the back of the desk, his hand snaking under it. After a moment, a sheen appears between the guards and the pair. He looks back to her and says, his tone much more relaxed, as if the loud booming one is merely a facade, "What would you like to discuss, Ms. Jabs? I assure you, we will not be overheard." "Mr. Smitherbodkins," Miranda begins, seeing the field come up to give them privacy. "I have already spent much longer here that I should have, and for this reason I am going to take that pen, and also that lap desk you mentioned, and I am going to display them prominently in my office. Why else would I come here? I have no reason. Do you understand?" She does not wait for an answer, but keeps going. "I just had a meeting with that deranged Toydarian. I believe he means to kill you. That's all." Smitherbodkins opens his mouth, but each time he thinks that she might be done, she continues to speak. Finally, he just stops, waiting until she's completely finished. When it's clear that she is, he still remains quiet. He's struck dumb by this observation, a feat that does not happen often. After another second, he begins to laugh. Quite different from his usually hearty timbre, it's incredulous, and he regards her with a look that's surprise bordering on contempt. "You believe he means to kill me? Really, what gave it away? Was it, perhaps, the helpful push into thin air?" Smitherbodkins's response gives Jabs a moment of pause. "Well, yes," she replies once he is done laughing, looking almost sheepish. "But I don't believe that was premeditated. More an opportunity taken, fed by our less than immediate acceptance of his little deal. This is not what I am talking about." She then glances about nervously, hoping that no one else comes in and sees her here. It could complicate things with Qwynt. The gentleman shakes his head, regarding his visitor as though he expected better from her. "Just what exactly -are- you talking about, Ms. Jabs?" His voice, while not precisely dripping with sarcasm, is certainly well and truly damp with it. "What can he do to me that he hasn't already done? I would rather be dead than have to survey that monstrosity outside," he says, nose wrinkling in disgust as he sweeps a hand to indicate the Qwyntiquities mega mall outside. Miranda gives one last glance towards the door and then makes sure the faint glimmer of the field is still in place. "I just came from speaking to him, vile thing that he is, and he seemed rather upset about the emergency Direx meeting. Seems he thinks you plan to vote him out. Of course, everyone does. He didn't say outright he was going to try to eliminate you before the meeting, but he may have alluded to it. I don't know for sure." At the mention of Qwyntiquities, Miranda rolls her eyes. "Don't worry about that. No one in the sector is confused about where the finest products are to be found. That is a playground for the plebeian." "As well he should be," Smitherbodkins responds, giving a decisive nod as he bangs the end of his cane on the floor for emphasis, causing a sharp rapport that leaps from it to echo against the walls, calling back and forth until it disappears. "All shall be settled at that meeting, Ms. Jabs, for good or ill." Strangely, a hint of his usual smile touches his lips, though it doesn't make it anywhere near his eyes. It has a melancholy cast to it, a bittersweet quality that is felt, rather than seen, as he meets Jabs' gaze. "That does explain the recent happenings, however," he muses, thinking on the events of the past few days. The strange Verpine quite unlike the ones associated with Jabs herself, the climate control of Etti on the fritz...he gives a weary sigh, hunching his shoulders against the next bombardment of less-than-competent attempts on his life and/or sanity. A curious eyebrow is raised at the comment about the happenings, but Miranda Jabs has never been one to pry. "I just thought you should know. Bodkins Antiquities is too valuable a company to lose its CEO." That and Miranda owns too many shares of it to see it tank in the aftermath of an assassination. "Qwyntiquities will not last. Already there is talk of forgeries being sold. Mr. Qwynt will self-destruct." Again, she glances towards the door. "I think it best that I go soon. I would like to buy the Hutt desk, as well as that...pen." Her nose wrinkles somewhat in disgust. "Please have it wrapped for me. Thoroughly. Unless there was anything else you...might need?" The mention of the Huttese desk earns a nod from the man, and he walks toward one of the shelves, removing a large, flat slab of wood, gingerly carrying it to the counter and placing it down. "I appreciate your warning," he says as he begins to wrap up the items in question, "I know what it might cost you should anyone happen to...disclose your whereabouts." He finishes his task, tying the parcel with a flourish. "I believe that concludes our business," he says, and he hesitates for a moment, before raising an eyebrow, "Would you care for a gift receipt?" This time, his eyes twinkle with genuine mirth as the idea strikes him. "A gift receipt?" the woman echoes questioningly. She had just stated that the horrific artifact was going to sit in her office, prominently, on display, right in front of her immediately. But then she seems to catch on to the mischievous sparkle in Mr. Smitherbodkins's eye. "I do think I know someone who would enjoy such...unique," this seems to be the best adjective she can come up with, "Artifacts. Yes, I think it will be right up his alley. He has, in fact, just developed a sudden interest in antiques. I think I will take that receipt. Thank you. Thank you _very_ much." Not only for the sale, but also for the idea to get it out of her office. Smitherbodkins nods, wrapping the pen as well and putting both of the items in one of the signature bags. He closes the drawstring tightly, handing the entire parcel to the Verpine who Jabs has in tow. After all, he knows her well enough to know that she won't be the one to carry it, like a common pack bantha. His previously somber mood has vanished as though it never existed, "You are quite welcome, my dear," he says, inclining his head toward her in a small bow, "I am sure that whomever receives such a gift will be...suitably impressed." He can't help but chuckle as the picture comes to him. "And do send our friend my regards, will you?" His words are vague once more as he pushes the button underneath the counter once more, the forcefield shimmering out of existence. "Oh, I will, Mr. Smitherbodkins. You can count on it," Miranda says as the Corellian passes her parcel to the verpine slave. When the force field is lowered, she gives him a last bob of the head, hands over a large pile of credits, and walks out of the store.